


La Belle Dame sans Merci

by Eireann



Series: Jag [10]
Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Alien/Human Relationships, F/M, Rescue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 00:21:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29925087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eireann/pseuds/Eireann
Summary: A Section 31 Black Ops Team is tasked with a rescue, but things go wrong - and unless a successful second rescue can be achieved, one of their own will die.
Relationships: Malcolm Reed/Other(s)
Series: Jag [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/58073
Comments: 10
Kudos: 3
Collections: Reed's Armory Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [delighted](https://archiveofourown.org/users/delighted/gifts).



> Disclaimer: Star Trek and all its intellectual property belongs to Paramount. No infringement intended, no money made.
> 
> OC Holly Langford borrowed by kind permission of Delighted, who may or may not want to slap me around the ear for the use I've made of her here...

_“There it is!”_

Stripes’ soft, fierce cry cut through the tense quiet aboard the ship that had once – many, many years ago – gone by the name of the _York._ Now, in the service of Section 31, it appeared on spaceflight registration lists under the name of a ship that had been consigned to history years ago; but one of the crew preferred the original name and no-one else had any preferences, so they called it the _York_ between themselves.

“Got you, you bastards,” breathed Pard.

The man sprawling beside her neither blinked nor moved, for his finger was already crooked around the trigger of the phase rifle, but she felt his previously diffuse concentration narrow into a single arrowhead of predatory intention.

Opposite them, Spots gently and unhurriedly collected the tiny finch that had been hopping about on his own rifle and restored it to its temporary cage. 

Leo, at the weapons array, quietly brought the cannons online and gestured Jag forward to take his place; this was about to become a job for the specialist. The ship they’d been pursuing was too well shielded to be destroyed outright by the _York_ ’s cannons, even if that had been the intention, but the exchange of fire they’d had two days ago had damaged both vessels. The prey had recovered first and made its escape, but not only were its weapons severely damaged but leaking plasma exhaust had shown up on the scanners and led the pursuers to this supposedly empty asteroid field; and after that, it was just a matter of time and patience, waiting while the sleek, dark-hulled ship cruised among the drifting rocks like a hungry shark through a kelp-forest. 

The asteroid field was all that was left of the single planet that had once circled the nameless white dwarf star whose glare made the surfaces brilliant and the shadows impenetrably black. It was a poetically monochrome landscape, but a nightmare to find anything in by sight.

Unfortunately, many of the asteroids were metal-heavy, sending back confusing signals to the scanners searching for a metal hull. The onboard computers were busy examining the camera feeds, hunting for shapes or reflections that might correspond with anything too smooth or uniform to be natural – anything that might be a part of a ship lurking in hiding or waiting in ambush. They had far greater capacity to recognise and identify even a few centimetres of the edge of a fin or the wink of light off a fragment of hull plating than a human eye that can only focus on one part of the picture at a time.

“Remember, we don’t want to blow them up by accident,” the squad’s leader reminded both his pilot and his marksman. “And don’t force them into an asteroid. This is a boarding mission. They’ve got important cargo.”

“Wilco, skipper! – Ow! Fuck!” The back of the seat (which had seen many, _many_ better days) wasn’t much protection from a sharp jab with the muzzle of a phase rifle, even if you were expecting it because Brits have no sense of humour and with Jag otherwise occupied, Pard felt herself obliged to deliver retribution on his behalf.

Now, it took precious seconds for the prey to realise the predator had tracked them down. Engines whose exhaust ports had been closed to conceal the betraying heat signatures were suddenly exposed again, and the thermal sensor monitors lit up. Stripes, concentrating on anticipating the trajectory the fleeing ship would take when it broke from cover, was too busy with his instruments to pay any attention to the lean figure in the seat alongside him, all joking now set aside as he prepared the ship’s weapons for action.

Behind them, Spots was going through the belts laid out, making his usual last-minute routine of checking that all the personal weapons in them were ready for use; they always were, because the team were professionals, but that was just his ‘thing’. So it was only Leo, picking up Jag’s phase rifle, who saw the brief glance Pard and its owner shared, and the way that almost in unison they licked at the air, their smiles like shared snarls. That was _their_ ‘thing’, and everyone did what got them ready for battle. He himself wore a button badge on his shirt’s breast pocket, so old and worn that you could hardly work out what had originally been on it, and always turned it upside down. He did so now, so as not to have to think about it later.

Whatever worked, when there might be killing to be done. 

In such an environment, speed was almost as dangerous as the enemy’s weapons. One could kill quite as well as the others, for the asteroids – ranging in size from a pea to a huge apartment block – were in constant motion, driven from one collision into another in an eternal dance powered by their own momentum and the energy transferred during each impact. Either ship, struck by any one of the careering lumps of rock, would have sustained serious damage at best. Caught in a collision, they would have been pulverised instantly.

The enemy ship had a good pilot. But for all that the man at the _York_ ’s helm looked like an undernourished urchin and wore a knitted orange woollen hat with a darn in it, he flew the ship as though he was a part of her. His hand on the rudder had the delicate, ruthless precision of a surgeon as he slid the craft through gap after gap that had his comrades’ breath suspended, and one where even Leo was observed to shut his eyes

But eyes could not be kept closed for long, for the enemy was constantly glimpsed and lost, glimpsed and lost again, fleeing desperately through the reeling boulders. At each glimpse the immensely sophisticated tactical array pinpointed possible strike points, and the human brain manning it had to make split-second decisions that factored in the risks of a hit. If it had simply been a kill the pursuit would have been far shorter, for there were several occasions when the exposed exhausts offered a clean shot and a plasma cannon blast into either of them would have taken out the engine, the rest of the ship disintegrating around it. Time and again, however, the proximity of some menacing lump of rock against which a crippled ship might smash itself to pieces stayed Jag’s hand even from a strike that would merely disable.

Whatever this ship was carrying, it was valuable. The team were available for any kind of duty that Section 31 required, almost invariably tasks that were ‘beneath’ the remit of your standard Starfleet vessel’s crew, and their experience with hunt and destroy made it pretty well a given that they’d be tasked with this particular job. But though the hunting had been accomplished successfully, the ‘destroy’ half of the equation was emphatically not required. Which made everything that much more complicated, and so it seemed as though many, many moments passed while the orange glow of the prey’s exhaust ports was lost and found, lost and found again among the asteroids and the crazy dipping and swooping and swerving of the _York_ was enough to make one seasick.

But suddenly:

It was too brief a window of opportunity, too quick a movement, for any cry of triumph. The shifting shadowscape was lit by a flare of concentrated energy as a plasma bolt tore through the intervening space.

Someone must have made some attempt to repair the damaged weapons, because almost in the same instant a missile sped back towards them. But a spur of a wildly-rotating asteroid intervened just in time and the warhead exploded against it.

Stripes had already plotted an evasion course around the asteroid, but the sudden explosion made the _York_ shudder violently and half a dozen alarms blared as the polarised plating of her dorsal hull absorbed not only a good portion of the shockwave but the impact of the debris. Still, it held – well, most of it did; the plating was less effective against solid material than at absorbing energy, and there would probably need to be at least some repairs before they could head for home, for certainly there were warning signs indicating that some areas had been holed and decompressed. But when she emerged from the cloud of debris she was still fully functional, which was more than could be said for the ship they were pursuing. The shot had taken out her starboard thruster and cost her half of her manoeuvrability; not to mention that the port close by had buckled and with the engine gases on that side unable to vent properly, the engine itself would have to be immediately powered down before the buildup blew it to smithereens – and the ship with it.

Partially crippled and now in extreme danger from the asteroids, the enemy ship had no choice but to flee the field for the safety of open space. Transferring all defensive power to the forward hull, Stripes hurled _York_ in pursuit. 

With one engine down, the chase was a short one. Spots was closest to the comms array, and opening all channels to hail in all languages currently stored on Starfleet’s database, he ordered the enemy to stand down and prepare to be boarded. 

“If you will comply, you will not be harmed,” he concluded grimly. “But we will use terminal force if necessary.” 

Another torpedo was the only response. A flip of _York_ ’s wing and it sped past and flew on to vanish among the asteroids astern, where it probably contributed briefly to the chaos there.

Jag shrugged. _R_ -class freighters were small and fast and reasonably well-armed, but they had weak spots if you knew where to aim for and had time to place your shot carefully. There was a place on each flank just under a cowling where the emission of surplus coolant gases from a vent there meant that the plating had to be kept thin to allow it to escape. The plasma cannon spoke again, and one of the external fuel lines that also ran just behind the starboard cowling ruptured and began spraying a mist of its contents into space, condensing instantly into a trail of frozen pellets in hard vacuum.

Another hit would have ignited it, but the threat to the ship itself from the resulting blowback would have been acute; an explosion could easily destroy it, depending on how the internal ducts ran and how many of them were locked off to keep pressure off the now partly deactivated engine. The energy in their shielding now presented a huge threat to their survival, and the failsafe built into the fuel system immediately shut off power to the hull plating before a spark could jump across the ruptured line, meet the bursting fuel and ignite it.

The ship was now defenceless. It could still fire, but it only had half speed. 

“Tell them if they piss us about any more I’ll take out the other port,” he said flatly. 

=/\=

Spots modified the message slightly, but the point got through. A sullen voice through the comm said that they would co-operate, and the team finished ‘suiting and booting’ as Stripes gently brought the _York_ in to kiss against the freighter’s docking port.

Sensors around the door registered the seal effective and docking clamps were now securely fastened to the other ship’s hull. Nothing short of explosive charges would separate the two ships now until the undocking sequence was followed from _York_ ’s cockpit.

“No weapons powered up.” Pard checked her scanner. “Seven bio-signs. Non-human. Don’t recognise the species.”

Leo thumbed the comm. “All personnel to remain away from the docking port. Do not offer resistance at any point. That includes the presence of all hand weapons and any item that could be used for hostile purposes.

“You have had one warning. This is the only one you get.

“We are about to board your ship and search it. You will co-operate with every request, and if you do, you will not be harmed.”

He nodded.

 _York_ ’s outer hatch slid back with a pneumatic hiss, revealing the narrow stretch of flexible material that could adapt itself to any irregularity or curve of another ship’s hull and still form a seal. In this case it was only a couple of centimetres across at its widest point, but it was still briefly uncomfortable to step through it; though it was radiation-proof it provided almost no protection from the white glare of the sun, and the comparative dimness of the ship beyond it could have harboured any number of unpleasant surprises to take advantage of the momentary dazzle.

But the single alien waiting in the corridor beyond the debarking area was clearly resigned, if sullen. Its gender, if it had one, was unclear, but it was humanoid, though not prepossessing. It was tall and lanky, and its skin was heavily scaled; fringes of what looked like seaweed hung from its lower jaw, and its entire cast of face suggested – in human terms – a tendency to look on the worst side of events.

Maybe that was just a first impression, but its opening words seemed to confirm it. “My name’s Lith. I’m a legitimate trader. This is a peaceful ship,” it moaned, eyeing the well-armed boarding party with what seemed like dismal fascination. “All our paperwork is in order. We’ve nothing worth looting…”

“Then you won’t mind us checking your cargo.” Leo lowered his rifle but didn’t put the safety back on.

“This ship cost me my entire life savings!”

“You’ve still got your ship. We want one thing you’re carrying. Hand it over peacefully and you can go.”

Lith waved its hands desperately. “If you’ll let us hand it over I’ll cut you in on a share of the profits!”

“We don’t want your profits. You know what we want. Take us to your cargo bay.”

“And pack in whining.” Pard’s thumb switched her rifle setting a few times. Enough to leave it somewhat doubtful – to anyone but herself and probably Jag – what it was on when she stopped.

Their host still seemed disposed to argue. It reluctantly led the way to the cargo bay, and along the way they encountered several other crew members of the same species, all clearly resentful but not daring to intervene. No weapons were in evidence and no-one sprang from hiding.

The cargo bay door was reinforced and secured by what looked like several additional locks.

“Ooh, let me,” purred Jag, running his free hand over the case of explosives he had over one shoulder. “I haven’t caused any explosions for ages.”

“Could have fooled me.” Spots looked sideways at him.

“I’m easily pleased,” Pard explained.

“Your choice.” Leo’s bass rumble sounded almost bored as he looked at the alien. “You open the door or he does.”

Lith seemed close to tears by this time – if it possessed lachrymal glands – but complied. Several of the locks appeared bio-activated, though they probably wouldn’t have resisted explosives. Only a couple of moments passed before the door swung open.

All of the boarding party had rifles levelled, just in case their scanners might _somehow_ have missed a threat, but the compartment seemed empty of menace. There were quite a number of cases of different shapes and sizes, varying from one that would have held a flitter in comfort to several that looked as if they might contain precious stones.

“I’ll keep watch. _You_ can stay here too.” Stripes turned the muzzle of his rifle to their hapless host. “Just in case anything goes wrong.”

“I’ve co-operated,” it whined. “Just be careful, will you? I’ve got some valuable stock in here.”

That wasn’t unlikely. Class- _R_ freighters tended to carry smaller items, mostly because they were small and fast and rather hard to see on a scanner that tended to concentrate on larger vessels. One reason why they were popular with smugglers.

Leaving their comrade to stand guard over their hostage, the other three made their way into the cargo hold. Most of the items were unmarked except for a hastily scrawled symbol that presumably identified them against a manifest, but Leo seemed to know what he was looking for. After pausing beside several cases, he stopped beside one that looked like a smooth grey metal drum, a little more than a metre high and rather less than that in diameter. “This is the one.”

The watching Lith waved its half-webbed hands as though disappointed he hadn’t picked something else, but glanced at Stripes’ rifle and shrank into miserable resignation. “Please be careful,” it moaned.

Leo had brought an anti-grav device strapped to his back. He secured it to the case and activated the control, and with a low hum the case lifted a couple of centimetres from the floor. Using the handles, it was now possible to simply move the thing along with almost no effort.

Looking even more dismal than evolution had made it to begin with, the alien accompanied them – whether it wanted to or not – back towards the docking port. There were no other crew members visible now, and the _York_ team exchanged glances. It was always far better when the enemy were in plain view.

But though they maintained the utmost care and vigilance on the way there, the corridor outside the boarding area was empty and innocent. It appeared that the rest of the crew had simply accepted the situation and made themselves scarce.

At least, that was until Lith pressed the button on the control panel by the door. A terrific alarm went off and at the same moment a panel flew open in the ceiling and several weapons were poked through and started firing.

If the Section team had been less alert and less quick off the mark, there would undoubtedly have been casualties. But as it was they dodged and rolled, bringing their own weapons up to return fire. A hoarse scream suggested Lith had been hit, possibly by one of his own crew’s guns but nobody was asking questions as he pitched face down on the decking.

A body fell partly out of the opening, mostly blocking it. Pard darted over to slam her hand on the large button that opened the docking port and dodged a shot from someone firing around the corpse. The attackers were using projectile weapons, which was why Spots hadn’t been able to detect energy signatures and warn them.

Jag had taken cover behind the drum. He sneaked a look around the side of it and a bullet whipped though his hair, grazing his scalp. Blood immediately poured down his face and with a particularly virulent curse he wiped it away, smearing it on the metal in front of him as he rested his hand on it to steady himself from the sudden wash of nausea and rage. He wasn’t dead and scalp wounds always bleed a lot, and he had to be _calm_ … After a moment, he risked showing himself at the other side, just long enough to get off a shot in return.

The sniper above had been waiting for him to do it. Their shots were simultaneous, but though the bullet was travelling faster than the speed of sound, phase energy travels at just under light speed.

By the time the bullet left the muzzle of the gun, the energy from the phase rifle blast was already sizzling through the nerves and muscles of the arm that held it. The gun canted slightly down and sideways even before the body began to topple.

The projectile, tipped with duranium and spinning from the rifling on the barrel designed to give it maximum accuracy, just missed the thick band of the anti-grav and thumped into the side of the drum instead, opening a hole in it. 

It’s hard to see what you’re looking at unless you actually know what it is. Pard, who was next closest, got only an impression of something flowing out of the hole – something grey, that moved as quickly and smoothly as a lizard, and headed straight for the bloody handprint Jag had left on the drum. Then, even as Jag himself slithered backwards away from it, his face a print of fear and horror, it leaped at him –

– And disappeared.


	2. Chapter 2

_“Cover me!”_ Apparently regardless of any risk to himself, Leo hurled his rifle through the now open door of the airlock and dived forward to catch the Englishman as Jag began to topple backwards, his expression morphing briefly into astonishment before his eyes rolled shut. 

Pard and Spots unleashed a volley of fire at the open hatch above them, though shots from the left-hand corridor told that the enemy had also crept around that way and it was more than time they made themselves scarce. Fortunately only one of them struck – Spots got hit in the buttock by a ricochet, though a hot graze on Pard’s upper arm testified to her narrow escape – and the team managed to get themselves through the airlock, fairly throwing the metal drum through it regardless of any additional damage. As soon as they were inside the door slammed shut, activated by Stripes, who was already racing through the decoupling process.

 _York_ had a few sneaky tricks up her sleeve, and as the last of the contacts loosened from the hull she delivered one of them in the form of a massive energy surge through it. It would do serious damage to any circuits that were in contact with it (and there were bound to be quite a few) and any biological material would receive a significant shock. Dependent on how close the sufferer was to the airlock, this could well be fatal. Right now, that wasn’t something anyone on board the _York_ was going to worry about. 

Presumably this would provide at least a few moments’ distraction, and Stripes lost no time in taking advantage of it. As risky as it was to engage warp drive when the ship was still holed, remaining in the vicinity of an angry enemy was worse; they’d put some distance between them and then stop to carry out repairs. He sent the ship speeding out of range of any weapons the enemy could still bring to bear, and only when he was satisfied that they were well away did he swivel the pilot’s seat to see what was happening behind him.

Spots was prone on the floor. There was undoubtedly a wealth of humour to be had out of the fact that his pants were down around his thighs, but the fact that his right buttock was awash with blood suggested that now wasn’t the time to make a joke of it. Pard had the first aid supplies open and was preparing a hypospray while the patient himself was sorting through the drawers to find a probe. The noise of shots had been the only clue projectile weapons were being used – fucking things, there wasn’t a scanner designed that could pick those up! 

Leo had laid Jag down on a bench and passed the medical scanner across his skull. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, he’d torn open a dressing and applied it firmly to the scalp, finally binding it there with a bandage that passed across one eye and gave the Englishman a piratical look. Now he was urgently trying to get him to wake up. There was blood on his shirt which had dripped from his head wound, but there didn’t seem to be any other injuries. And he was completely out for the count. 

Pard had delivered the hypospray charge and now set about digging out the bullet. Leaving Jag for the moment, Leo picked out a packet of sterile wipes and began methodically wiping away the welling blood as she pushed the metal tongs into the muscle. Squatting beside them, Stripes dug out the antiseptic spray and staple-stitch gun; more professional repairs would have to wait till they made it back to Earth, but in the meantime the important thing was to get the bullet out and close the wound. It wasn’t the first time by any means that they’d had to be their own medical staff and they were all quite used to it. 

It took some time and effort, but finally Pard gave a grunt of triumph and withdrew the probe with the bullet gripped between its jaws. Stripes squirted antiseptic into the wound and applied the stitch-gun a couple of times – all the searching around had split it slightly wider. Finally they slapped on a gauze pad and taped it in place, and the job was done.

“Thanks.” Spots moved cautiously, and got slowly to his feet – the general painkiller had been topped up by a local anaesthetic before Pard started work with the probe, so he made his way to the nearest chair and sat down in it, resting most of his weight on the other side of his rear. “I guess I won’t be sleeping on my back for a while.”

“Good. You won’t snore.” Stripes dodged a half-hearted backhand blow. His cabin wasn’t even next to the other man’s anyway, and it had been observed on previous occasions that when it came to snoring, the shortest person in the team (Pard overtopped him by a couple of centimetres) was capable of producing more noise than anyone else, usually when he’d overdone the alcohol intake. There had been times when it had been claimed, with some justification, that he could produce more noise than _everyone_ else. 

“So what’s with Jag?” demanded Pard, tipping her head towards where their weapons expert still lay completely inert, arms falling lax off the bench, which was too narrow to hold them.

Leo had pulled out the medical scanner again for a more comprehensive reading and now frowned down at what it revealed. “I’m not sure. I don’t think he’s in any danger, but some of his readings are elevated.

“So did anyone see what actually happened?” He bent to very cautiously peer at the hole in the metal drum from a respectful distance, after passing the medical scanner across it. “There are no life-signs inside. Whatever it was, there was only one of them.” He glanced up and saw the red line across Pard’s arm, sighed and beckoned her over for treatment.

There was no point in protesting. Pard glowered but submitted, pulling the shirt off her arm to expose the injury, and stood still while he treated the graze and bandaged it. “Something definitely came out of that hole,” she said. “I’m not sure it was … solid, it was too big to have got through something that small. But it _moved_ like something solid. Something that could scamper on a vertical surface, like a gecko on a wall. And it – I think it smelled the blood.”

“Blood?” queried Spots.

The drum was still in the anti-grav and easy to move. She turned it, pointing to the smeared handprint on the side. “You know how a scalp wound bleeds, he had to clear the blood out of his eyes. And that – whatever it was – was attracted to it.

“Then presumably it tracked it to source.”

They all looked at Jag again. Leo had wiped his face, but under the bandaging the gleam of blood on his hair and ear was visible, likewise on the palm of his left hand where he’d wiped it away.

“I wonder whether we should put him in a hazmat suit,” Spots said quietly. “Whatever that thing is, we don’t know what it’s doing to him. Or if it’s going to stay in there.”

“We don’t know whether a hazmat suit would stop it if it decided not to.” They had the appropriate equipment in a storage locker, but though the sensible option would probably be to wear it themselves rather than risk trying to put Jag in one, the same question applied. Leo had touched him both to carry him and treat him, and suffered no ill effects; but _something_ was definitely in residence, and no-one had any idea what to do about it.

“We need more information.” He tramped to the comms console and took the unusual step of sending a call to HQ requesting a contact.

=/\=

Perhaps half an hour had passed, and they were all eating a rather quiet and sombre lunch preparatory to setting about the necessary repairs to the hull, when the incoming call pinged.

Leo turned to the comm panel on the wall and activated it.

Harris undoubtedly saw at once that all four of them were present, and his expression darkened slightly. “Well?”

“We got the job done,” said Leo bluntly. “But one of the hostiles took a shot at the container.”

“Was it damaged?”

“Holed.”

The spymaster considered that information. “And?”

“And I need to know what that thing was inside it.”

“No, you don’t. You need to know what I’m going to do to retrieve the situation.”

“With respect, sir, I _do_ need to know how much of a danger it represents. I have a man down and the rest of us are exposed to possible risk. If needs be, I _will_ space him to protect the other members of the team – regardless of the mission.”

Harris considered again. “In the short term, I estimate the danger to the rest of you to be low.”

“And to Jag?” Pard demanded.

The cold dark eyes shifted to her. “Insufficient information. But the danger to Starfleet if we do not succeed in retrieving this life-form could one day be incalculable. The loss of one operative – or, to be frank, all five of you – would be a price I’m more than willing to pay.”

It was hardly surprising; given the nature of some of the jobs they were being tasked with these days, achieving their objective was often clearly more important than their own survival afterwards. But still, it was faintly chilling to hear it said so bluntly.

“Thanks,” muttered Stripes.

“I’ll have to make arrangements,” Harris continued, unheeding. “Until then, continue on your standard course and heading as soon as you can. I’ll contact you when I have any pertinent information.”

“Sir, frankly I think you have a lot of pertinent information you’re not sharing with us,” Leo said. “Clearly there _is_ a risk and while there may be no means of mitigating it, I think we have a right to know what we’re dealing with. In the event of a catastrophe, where this ship would presumably have to be retrieved by the appropriate personnel to deal with the situation, you wouldn’t just tell them to ‘get on with it’ without any knowledge of what they might expect to encounter.

“I accept this is classified information, but we’re more than capable of keeping our mouths shut, and you know that. If there’s any that might possibly be useful in helping us _avoid_ this becoming a catastrophe situation, I’d appreciate you sharing it with us.”

The face on the screen scowled. “I’m not discussing this on a live channel. I’ll send you the relevant facts shortly.

“In the meantime, contain the situation and keep me advised of any changes.

“Harris out.” And the image winked dark.


	3. Chapter 3

“‘Contain the situation’,” muttered Pard. “Yeah, sure.”

“Would help if we knew what the situation was.”

Emergency repairs to the hull had been carried out and _York_ was under way again. Between them, she and Spots had carried the mattress, pillow and blankets out of Jag’s quarters and put them down in a corner of the living area. Then, somewhat gingerly, they’d carried their still-unconscious comrade from his narrow and uncomfortable bench and laid him on it.

Leo had ordered that for now, the team should stand guard over him in double shifts. The toss of a coin had left Pard and Spots to stand the first guard, while the other two retired to catch some sleep. The helm was already on auto-pilot, with all sensors on maximum just in case of any unexpected encounters; but this was a remote area of space, and nothing was expected.

The promised message from Harris still hadn’t arrived. But then, a lot depended on their boss’s definition of ‘shortly’, and Pard suspected he hadn’t really relished being challenged. He wouldn’t be in any rush to provide the information he hadn’t wanted to give out in the first place.

“I’ll get us a coffee,” said Spots softly. “I’ll just be down the corridor. Any trouble, give me a shout.”

Not that there seemed much prospect of that. Jag lay immobile under the blanket, arms at his sides, eyes closed, and no expression on his face except the faintest impression of a smile.

“Yeah, I can see that grin on your face,” she told him sourly. “You’re just enjoying lying there having us all worrying about you. Lazy bastard.”

Grinning, Spots stepped through the doorway, heading for the tiny kitchen where they made their meals. When he was out of sight, she sighed and ran a hand gently through Jag’s tousled hair on the side that wasn’t covered by the bandage.

Almost immediately he reacted. His eyes opened – just a fraction – and his head turned in her direction.

“ _What_ did he say?” Her companion hot-footed it back into the room. The words had barely been above a whisper, but he had hearing like a bat.

Jag’s gaze drifted shut again, without ever having focused on anything.

“It sounded like … like poetry.” Pard looked up in bewilderment. “‘I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone...’...what the hell does _that_ mean? What the fuck is a ‘fragrant zone’?”

“Beats me. Well, I can take a guess, but … I’ve never heard it called _that_ before.” He squatted on Jag’s other side and patted his face briskly. “Hey! Saint George! Talk to us! Tell us some more poetry!”

No response.

“Should I wake Leo?”

“And tell him Jag’s quoting poetry in his sleep? I think he can wait to hear that. If he actually wakes up, or says something useful, we’ll rethink the situation. In the meantime, I need that coffee.” With a sigh he got back to his feet.

=/\=

It was about half an hour before the end of shift that the message from Harris arrived. Leo must have been already on the brink of wakefulness, because only a couple of minutes passed before he walked in and sat down at the comm. Clearly, he’d heard the ping of the incoming data packet.

Pard went out to make him breakfast. He never ate much, just a bowl of porridge with a handful of blueberries; by the time she returned with that and a cup of black coffee, he was sitting back, frowning at the lines of text.

Yawning, Stripes had emerged from his cabin just as she passed. “Anything?”

“I’ll tell you when we’ve heard from Leo.”

Rather than go to find his own breakfast, he ambled after her into the forward area. He was wearing nothing except a thong and his hat, but they were all used to that. If he hadn’t had his hat on, _that_ would have been scary.

Leo sighed and rubbed his eyes. “According to this, _somewhere or other_ Starfleet have come across a planetoid that’s … well, it’s a metallurgist’s dream.

“Essentially, it’s mostly metal. And most of the metal is dilithium. Top grade dilithium.”

Spots whistled.

“At first, they thought it was uninhabited. Then they found it wasn’t. But the people who lived in it were… different.

“As best they can understand it, these aliens have reached a point in their evolution where they’ve almost outgrown needing a body. They don’t move much. They communicate telepathically. Each of them lives inside an immensely sophisticated structure that’s designed to manufacture and recycle their nutrients, basically between now and forever.

“But though it seems as if they live for immense lengths of time, they still need each other to reproduce.”

Stripes frowned. “If they can’t move?”

Leo looked at the text again. “They don’t exchange chromosome packets. In some way our scientists don’t even begin to understand, they bud off an _intellect_. They want a new individual, a fusion of two of the old rather than a genetic and mental clone.

“When it’s mature, the bud will… transfer to another adult. We don’t know how they select the host, but apparently its arrival stimulates the host to bud off in its turn, so an exchange can take place. Then each host intellect dies back, and the new bud merges with it. Two new individuals with both of the original hosts’ memories, intelligence, brainpower – with that of literally hundreds of generations.” 

Pard shuddered.

“You’re saying that – this thing we’ve got here is one of those buds?” asked Spots incredulously. “What the _hell?_ ”

“But what good would it _be_ to anyone?” demanded Stripes.

Their team leader sighed again. “Word got out. Apparently there’s a theory that the – the bud is just like some kind of indiscriminating force, looking for something to bond to.” He cast a heavy glance at Jag. “Someone to love.”

Pard had been standing. Now she dropped into a chair. “Someone deliberately _stole_ it?”

“The theory is that this ‘entity’, in its seeking state, is capable of attaching itself to any sentient mind. Think about it. What better could _anyone_ want than a ‘friend’ who would love them unconditionally – accept them unconditionally – stay with them all their lives?”

There was a silence while they all allowed that idea to sink in.

“For fuck’s sake. A real-life ‘imaginary friend’.” Spots ran a hand through his long, disordered blond hair. “Worth a goddamn fortune.”

And on the mattress, Jag smiled in his dreams.


	4. Chapter 4

Harris was displeased.

On one hand, the _York_ team had carried out the raid successfully. On the other, the rescue had gone wrong.

Not catastrophically wrong; they were still, technically, in possession of the creature. The _kyoa_ , as it was apparently termed. But now there was the problem of how to extract it from its host and return it to the oAchse, who were – not unnaturally – deeply disturbed by developments.

True, the strange creatures could hardly be said to be a ‘threat’ in themselves. Their only technology was that necessary to maintain the last vestiges of corporeality. But the small portion of the Starfleet scientific community that had been allowed access to them were excited halfway to hysteria not only by the new life-form and their technology but by the amount of information it was hoped they might be willing to share from memories that went back to the evolution of their extremely ancient species. The oAchse, it transpired, remembered _everything_. 

The less abstruse side of things that interested other parties was the composition of that planetoid; specifically, its rich dilithium ore. Starfleet and almost all interstellar traffic depended on dilithium for propulsion. Control of it was at all times a lever for power, and given the current development for a new Warp 5 engine that would be the next step in the journey to take humanity even further out among the stars, it would be wise to secure a supply of it that was not under the control of anyone else. 

At first, the discovery of this seemingly insignificant and uninhabited planetoid circling a dying red giant star had seemed like the answer to prayers. Then, penetrating scans had revealed the presence of the oAchse, hidden in a vast cavern system deep underground. There were hundreds of them, each enclosed in its electronic coffin. 

That had changed everything. From triumphant settlers, Starfleet immediately became uninvited trespassers. True, opening relations with the oAchse had been guardedly successful – the strange life-forms essentially just wanted to be left alone, which was why they’d hidden themselves so thoroughly – and it was hoped that mining rights could be negotiated, with the right safeguards of course. But the theft of the _kyoa_ was a catastrophe.

The oAchse had never encountered such wickedness. Given their immense longevity, reproduction was an end-of-life event. Now their entire community was in shock and mourning, and one individual – the one waiting to produce their own _kyoa_ before it ‘died back’ – was in physical distress. The one who had lost everything was almost catatonic with grief. This was such an unheard-of development that the technology maintaining it was not even programmed to be able to alleviate it. 

After so long, the body was frail. The arrival of the new _kyoa_ and its integration with the ‘old’ mind would apparently instigate a kind of renewal, almost a rebirth – something else the scientific community were eager to study, insofar as the oAchse would permit it. But the pain and confusion of a mind so powerful inside a shell now so fragile was a dangerous situation. And if the individual _literally_ died…

Nobody knew what effect an actual death would have on the community. It was postulated that there was even some kind of group consciousness in operation. The survival of one could be tied into the survival of all.

Harris was not overly concerned by the scientific end of things. But he was extremely concerned by the potential threat to a source of high-grade dilithium that might well come to represent a vital resource for Starfleet in the future.

Viewed from that extremely hard-headed angle (and Harris was _always_ extremely hard-headed), the death of the whole oAchse community would actually benefit Starfleet. The planetoid would be free of inhabitants and open for new ownership. But if they survived – if even one of them survived – then there was no way they’d permit the presence of a civilisation that had effectively destroyed what was left of their own.

There was always the option of … arranging for the oAchse _not_ to survive. But that was a last resort. And in the meantime, if the damage could be repaired, they might still be able to salvage something out of this. After all, there might be material in that incalculable wealth of knowledge that might someday benefit Starfleet, and better to keep all their options open – _if_ it could be managed.

For a few more minutes he sat in his office, weighing his options. Then he shrugged, and entered the code on the decrepit-looking machine in front of him.

The return call didn’t come for more than an hour. His opposite number was never going to come back to him immediately, even if he wasn’t busy. But in the meantime Harris had more than enough work to be going on with, and he took his own time connecting when the call came.

Juvenile? Probably. But it was one of the little pleasantries that kept the diplomatic wheels turning.

“Well?”

They were long past the point of wasting superfluous politeness on each other.

“I need a doctor,” Harris said.

The angled eyebrows rose. “Don’t they have hospitals on Earth?”

“Not with doctors with the sort of capability I need.”

They considered each other cagily. There was currently a _slight_ imbalance in Starfleet’s favour.

“There aren’t many of our medical personnel who’d be willing… even among those who have the ability.”

“Find me an unwilling one.”

Lips pursed. “Discretion is essential.”

“Do I come across as indiscreet?”

The Vulcan allowed himself a faint, malevolent smile, acknowledging the hit. “You realise this changes the balance significantly.”

“Well, that’s just the way it goes, isn’t it? You’ll be back.”

With the usual lack of niceties, the screen went black. Harris sent a short note to the decoding people to keep an eye out in the usual place for buried information – specifically a set of co-ordinates. Nearer the time, there would be more details.

And meanwhile, the _York_ had to alter course.


	5. Chapter 5

_“Poetry?”_

Pard yawned. It was time for her to get some shut-eye, and she was ready for it. “Yes. But I think he was just talking in his sleep, to be honest.”

Leo eyed her dubiously. 

“He’s into poetry,” she said, brushing her fringe back impatiently. “He can recite every verse of _The Rime of the Ancient Mariner._ ”

“Isn’t that the one that’s about two hundred years long? About the guy who shot the albatross?”

“Felt more like four hundred when he was coming out with it,” she grumbled. “He only did it to prove he could.”

“And was this part of it?”

“I don’t think so. It was something about a bracelet, and a garland, and a ‘fragrant zone’. Whatever the hell a ‘fragrant zone’ is, barring the obvious.”

“It’s a belt,” chirped Stripes, raising his face from his mug of coffee.

“Say what?”

“It’s a belt made of flowers. That’s why it’s fragrant.” He took another gulp, and a bite of his toast. “It’s from a poem by Keats – ‘La Belle Dame Sans Merci’. We studied it at college.”

It was news to any of the others that he’d ever actually _been_ to college – his talents seemed generally to have been acquired from any number of disreputable sources, none of which had included a formal education – but with his free hand he swiped rapidly at his PADD, accessing the onboard library, and thumbed in entries with accustomed speed. “There you go.”

The computer of any spacefaring ship included any amount of entertainment resources – even given warp speeds, Space was big. So it wasn’t so surprising that the library contained classic poetry.

Leo took the PADD and glanced at the text, while Spots – just about to go to his own cabin – hesitated in the doorway.

After the first few verses, the big man’s mouth compressed. He read the rest in silence, then went back to the start and read aloud.

“O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,

Alone and palely loitering?

The sedge has withered from the lake,

And no birds sing.

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,

So haggard and so woe-begone?

The squirrel’s granary is full,

And the harvest’s done.

I see a lily on thy brow,

With anguish moist and fever-dew,

And on thy cheeks a fading rose

Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,

Full beautiful—a faery’s child,

Her hair was long, her foot was light,

And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head,

And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;

She looked at me as she did love,

And made sweet moan.

I set her on my pacing steed,

And nothing else saw all day long,

For sidelong would she bend, and sing

A faery’s song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,

And honey wild, and manna-dew,

And sure in language strange she said—

‘I love thee true’.

She took me to her Elfin grot,

And there she wept and sighed full sore,

And there I shut her wild wild eyes

With kisses four.

And there she lullèd me asleep,

And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide!—

The latest dream I ever dreamt

On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings and princes too,

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;

They cried—‘La Belle Dame sans Merci

Thee hath in thrall!’

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,

With horrid warning gapèd wide,

And I awoke and found me here,

On the cold hill’s side.

And this is why I sojourn here,

Alone and palely loitering,

Though the sedge is withered from the lake,

And no birds sing.”

 _La Belle Dame sans Merci_ – ‘The Lovely Lady without Pity’. And still Jag lay motionless, in the recovery position where Pard and Spots had laid him for safety, and still the shadow of a sweet, absent smile curved his mouth.

For some moments there was silence.

“He knows,” Pard said at last. Her tone was quite indecipherable.

Spots nodded. “I guess so.” He looked at Leo. “Harris does have a plan, right?”

Leo shrugged. His face was grim. “We can only hope so.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Leave that for a moment, Dr. Yuris. You have a visitor.” 

The Vulcan looked up from his studies, trying not to let his surprise show too obviously. Excessive surprise was frowned upon, as were all excessive displays of emotion, but there was no reason why he should have a visitor and Dr. Oratt undoubtedly knew that.

However, there was no reason why he should either refuse or delay compliance. Possibly some colleague in another department wished to confer with him about his recent paper, which had been well received in the scientific community. A few weeks ago he had applied to join the Interspecies Medical Exchange, feeling it offered opportunities to widen his horizons, but he suspected it was too early to hope for a response on that score.

Leaving his work open – there was no reason why he should be delayed for long, and the material on the viewscreen was nothing of an even vaguely sensitive nature – he walked to the door of the laboratory and thence to the corridor outside, where a middle-aged stranger in dark green robes was waiting for him.

“Dr. Yuris?” this person asked, rather in the way of someone who already knew but was going through the motions of civility.

“Yes,” Yuris replied, puzzled. “How can I help you?”

“Your expertise is required in a highly confidential situation,” the stranger said. “You have leave of absence. Please accompany me.”

“I _beg_ your pardon?”

“Now.” The right hand moved in an ushering gesture towards the exit.

“But Dr. Stromm–”

“–will see your work is waiting for you on your return. _Now_ , Doctor.”

Yuris risked a glance over his shoulder. Through the transparent section of the door he could see Oratt gesturing at him furiously, if unobtrusively; and it wasn’t a ‘stop wasting time and come back here at once’ sort of gesture. 

Feeling as if he’d wandered into some kind of illogical and inexplicable dream, he accompanied the stranger to the outside world, and across the flitter park to where a maglev carriage was just pulling up at the station. He was so bewildered that he didn’t even stop to point out that he’d left all his belongings at the laboratory, or ask his companion’s name, or where they were going.

The carriage wasn’t crowded, but there were enough people on it to make conversation effectively impossible. Being Vulcans, the passengers were quiet, absorbed in reading or reflection. Even talking in low voices would have been noticeable and whispering would have been considered ill-mannered. Besides which, Yuris had the feeling that his companion was not given to whispering and would have refused to answer any questions even if they’d been alone – which reduced the chances of his answering any now virtually nil.

Travel on public transport was managed by a bio-recognition plate on boarding. Despite having no authorisation to use it, Yuris found the scanner flashed green to let him on. Reality – already receding – look another step away from him.

He expected to disembark at the city centre, but though many of the other passengers did so, the other man remained in his seat while an inflow of travellers boarded en route to another destination.

Yuris did not use the maglev system often. He did not know where the various routes ran. This seemed a good time – if a little late – to resolve to improve that particular gap in his knowledge.

But he didn’t have to wait for long. The carriage sped on, and a couple of stops later, as it pulled into the spaceport, it was clearly their destination.

“I don’t understand,” he said as the maglev pulled away again, leaving the two of them on the smooth platform, looking out across the vast field of assorted spacecraft while others who’d disembarked headed for the exit. If he’d been bewildered before, now he was simply astounded – and beginning to be very afraid. “What am I doing here?”

“I told you. Your services are required. Come.”

“But for what?” He didn’t move. “I require an explanation.”

“You will get one – in due course. In the meantime, time is of the essence. You can come of your own accord, or you can be forced. The choice is yours.”

Yuris was not a coward, but he was not a fool either. He assessed his chances and decided that the man wasn’t bluffing, and that his own chances of coming off best in a struggle were not optimal. For one thing, while he himself certainly wasn’t armed, something about his companion suggested he very well might be. He had the brutal self-assurance of someone who knows they have the upper hand and doesn’t have to demonstrate it.

It wasn’t as if his absence would be missed. He wasn’t married yet, while his family were used to hardly hearing from him for weeks at a time – his work consumed all his energy and interest. He lived in one of the accommodation blocks attached to the laboratory, and it was unlikely that anyone there would notice his non-appearance in the meal hall or on the stairs. Certainly Oratt knew full well that he was going to be taken somewhere, though how much else he knew was anyone’s guess.

“I appear to have effectively _no_ choice,” he said, his voice even. “Very well.”

=/\=

They’d boarded a small and very unremarkable shuttlecraft, and Yuris had assumed they were travelling elsewhere on Vulcan. But after a very few minutes it was clear from the vessel’s trajectory that they were headed into space.

He wasn’t well acquainted with the minutiae of the various ships’ capabilities, but he did know that a craft of this size could only travel for a limited distance, however well equipped it might be with food and air. So it was somehow no surprise when the tapering shape of a _D’Vahl_ -type cruiser came into view – clearly where they were going.

“You’re taking me _off Vulcan?_ ” he asked. This time he didn’t even try to moderate his tone; such a development would excuse quite a degree of incredulity.

“Yes,” said his companion shortly.

“Do you mind telling me where? And why?”

“You’ll be given your instructions when you get there.”

“May I ask who has authorised this?”

“It’s a security matter.”

 _V’Shar._ Of course, everyone knew they existed – but knowing they were there was a rather different matter from being marched out of your place of work and forced onto a ship that was taking you to an unknown destination for an unknown purpose.

Yuris’s conscience was not quite as clear as it could have been on _every_ matter. True, he was a clever and conscientious scientist, and an honest and responsible citizen. He was well thought of by his colleagues and liked by his friends – though given his absorption in his work, he had little time for cultivating close relationships. But there was one thing–

“Why me?”

There was no answer for a moment or two, for the other man was busy manoeuvring the shuttlecraft to dock with the cruiser. He did so with enough expertise to suggest it was a regular task for him.

Then, when the vessel was secure and its systems powered down, he turned in his chair. “Your specific expertise is required. You’ve been loaned to Starfleet.

“You’ll be taken to meet their representatives and you will give them your full co-operation. After your task is completed you’ll be returned to the drop-off point, from where you’ll be returned to Vulcan.”

_Starfleet!_

Of course, Yuris had seen Humans, who visited Vulcan occasionally for ambassadorial or commercial reasons, but only at a distance. He had never spoken to one. His society would have vehemently denied that they engaged in ‘gossip’, but the exchange of information was a legitimate and, indeed, necessary part of social interaction; and ‘information’ about these latest players on the diplomatic stage varied from the startling to the bizarre.

The prospect was both exciting and alarming. Interacting with other species was one of the attractions for him of joining the Interspecies Medical Exchange, but he’d expected to have at least some preparation for the experience. He had so little concrete information about how he should behave, or how he might expect _them_ to behave. They ate – so rumour had it – almost incessantly. Likewise, their uncontrolled sexual appetites led to their ships being hotbeds of license. Would they expect him to eat incessantly too? What if one of their females were to proposition him? He was still some years from his next _pon farr_ , so that would be no help. What if if he accidentally offended some cultural sensitivity by refusing? Would that cause such umbrage that they refused to work with him? And if that happened, how much harm to Vulcan/Earth relations might result? 

He’d heard a great deal about Humans. The senior and somewhat elderly Dr. Oratt found them brash, arrogant and ill-mannered, and frequently said that the arrival of them among the interstellar community was one of the reasons he was contemplating quitting his post at the IME. Dr. Stromm, his much younger but equally intolerant deputy, usually managed to soothe away that possibility by persuading him that he was far too valuable to deprive the interplanetary medical community of his expertise simply because one species didn’t know its place or how to behave in civilised society. Yuris, who had frequently found Dr. Oratt arrogant and ill-mannered (and if not particularly brash, certainly abrasive) suspected that Stromm preferred to keep him in position more for his attitude to outsiders – whom he kept at arm’s length and definitely in their place – than for his medical expertise, especially now that Humans seemed likely to become part of the IME equation. Stromm was little keener on these upstart Earthers than his boss was, but less eager to display his bigotry openly.

Now, as he was ushered to the airlock, Yuris could guess with despair that any more questions he might ask were unlikely to be answered. But nevertheless, he couldn’t resist demanding how long he could expect to be held by the Humans for this unknown purpose he was to serve.

“As long as it takes,” was the unhelpful reply.

Well, that was nothing if not predictable.

But there was little point in either argument or resistance, especially when the airlock door opened to reveal two of the _T’Thaal_ ’s crew waiting for him. Although they did not seem to be armed, they nevertheless gave off the air of being disinclined to tolerate defiance.

Yuris glanced a little forlornly at what could be seen of Vulcan through the shuttle’s viewscreen – he had no idea of when he would see it again, if indeed he ever did – and then, gathering what felt like a phantom of courage, he stepped aboard the _T’Thaal_.

And if ever at any point hitherto he had had any options, he now had none at all.


	7. Chapter 7

Just over four days later the _T’Thaal_ arrived at a planet – Yuris was never to know its name – that harboured a thriving spaceport, rather larger than the one he’d departed from on Vulcan but immeasurably less neat and well-ordered. He could only speculate that it was the location of the planet that had inspired the first settlers to set up home here, for it was not, at first glance, welcoming. It had atmosphere (rather thin, but breathable) and the temperature, at this location at least, was bearable, if chilly. A considerable amount of terraforming must have been required to render the valley in which it sat hospitable. Now there were fields, worked to provide some of the station’s food supply, and as the shuttlepod had swooped down he’d seen the gleam of water running in irrigation ditches. There seemed little evidence of surface water but there were structures he took to be some kind of Artesian wells, sunk to abstract subterranean deposits.

Maybe there were settlements elsewhere, but most of what life there was here seemed very much confined to the port itself. There was little evidence of the straggle of surrounding structures that usually sprang up around such places, particularly in a place that – to judge by the somewhat haphazard arrangement of vessels parked up pretty well anywhere there was a space – did not seem to be under a strict system of governance. At a guess there _was_ some form of law here, but its supervision was cursory at best. As he stepped from the shuttle, a bag containing a change of clothes and a PADD clasped in one hand and forged transit documents in the other, Yuris received the impression that it was not a pleasant place. Although a peaceable person by inclination he would have felt less nervous if he’d had some kind of a weapon, even tucked away inside his clothing. As it was, the only thing he had was a miniature universal translator clipped to the inside of his robe. 

Almost before he’d got half way to the port offices he heard the sound of the shuttle taking off again. Now feeling very alone and extremely nervous, he watched it lift into the evening sky and soar away. Although nobody aboard the _T’Thaal_ had actually been pleasant to him (most of them ignored him completely), he felt as though he’d lost his only friend in the world.

But he’d been told that the PADD contained his instructions and he was to consult it when he got into the main trading concourse. So, drawing a deep breath, he made his way to the entrance, where he was asked to give his name and planet of origin to a bored official, who glanced at his transit papers without even bothering to unfold them fully. Nobody had said he shouldn’t give his real name so he thought honesty was probably the best policy, but as soon as he’d been waved on his way he immediately began to worry in case he should have invented something. After all, however incredible the concept might be, he was now ‘working’ for the V’Shar. He suspected that few intelligence agents made it their habit to give out their _real_ names on demand.

Still, his documents bore his real name and in any case it was too late now, so he walked warily onward to where the broad corridor from the parking bays spilled out into what was undoubtedly the concourse he was to aim for.

There was certainly nothing like this on Vulcan, where restraint was the keyword for everything. If the designers of this place had ever heard of ‘restraint’ they had decided it was a concept so absurd as to be consigned to oblivion without delay, and set out to construct an environment where one hostelry vied with the next to outdo it in garishness and noise.

It was a while before Yuris could make out what some of them were. Clearly many provided food and accommodation, while others were purveyors of clothes and merchandise. Here and there were rather more secretive places which he deduced were devoted to gambling, but it came to him with a shock that what he had thought were friendly female customers of one establishment who simply happened to have conceived a wish to watch passers-by were actually employees on the lookout for business among the crowds of people walking past. No Vulcan woman with any scrap of self-esteem would have worn such clothes, and although the prostitutes were from several different species – some he didn’t even recognise – he supposed with horror as he hurried away that Human males would be naturally drawn to such places. After all, given their sexual proclivities, it was reasonable to imagine that even unfettered access to all the females aboard their ships would not satisfy their voracious needs for long. 

Finally he reached an area where the restrooms branched off to one side and there was a structure in front of them with what looked like an extremely unlikely potted palm in the middle of it and seats around the circumference. There were other people sitting there, but they all seemed to be occupied with their own affairs. It seemed a reasonable place to stop, rest and study the instructions he’d been told would be on the PADD, and so with a glance around to make sure that nobody was taking any notice of him, he rather gingerly sat down. It was unfortunate that the only vacant seat was next to an Andorian, but apart from a backward movement of the antennae, the alien ignored his arrival.

He thought he would be given directions. But the message that flashed up at him simply said:

ACCEPT THE OFFER

He blinked.

He was still gazing at the message when someone stopped in front of him.

It still hadn’t resolved itself into any sense, but he was wrestling with the idea of it being some kind of code. His concentration was being impaired by the proximity of someone, so he looked up, hoping that a glance would be sufficient to move them on. 

His startled eyes ran up a sheer red dress that imperfectly hid a pair of extremely long, slender legs. It hugged an equally slender body, and only just contained her breasts. The owner thereof – a platinum-fair Human female, who would have been much more attractive if her wares had not been laid out for purchase in a way that shocked his conservative soul – was smiling down at him. Her mouth was painted the exact shade of her dress, and her smile was completely confined to it. 

“Perhaps I was a little hasty back there,” she cooed down at him. “For a handsome young man like you, I’ll take a small reduction. If you’re still interested, of course?”

Possibly rather too late for comfort, he achieved the connection between the message and ‘the offer’. He’d never seen this woman before in his life (he was sure he would have been quite unable to forget seeing anything so vulgar) and he certainly hadn’t spoken to her.

Still – he wasn’t here to – could it be a case of mistaken identity?

“If you don’t take her, I will!” The Andorian next to him nudged him in the ribs. “Oh, but don’t you Vulcans only get the itch every seven years? 

“Whatever he offered you, sweetheart, I’ll double it – and you’ll get a _real_ man in your bed!”

“I’m sure of it.” She sent him a sidelong smile. “But this cutie asked first. And if he hasn’t had any for seven years, I’ll bet he’s got plenty of catching up to do!”

The Andorian howled with laughter, got up leisurely and ran a hand across her backside. Then he whispered something in her ear, laughed again and walked away.

The prostitute pouted. “You’ve lost me a good customer, Mr Vulcan. Is it yes or is it no?”

“Yes,” Yuris got out, praying he wasn’t making the worst mistake of his life.

She gave him a dazzling smile that reminded him vividly of a snarling sehlat. “Then I’m sure you won’t mind us just checking you have the funds. No offence, of course. It’s just business.”

He’d been given a card ‘for expenses’. He accompanied her to a terminal – unsurprisingly, there were quite a number of these – and she entered the card into the slot. He supplied the passcode, and she brought up the available sum.

It might have bought him a meal in one of the more modest eating establishments on the station. He might be very much an innocent in the charges for the services of a prostitute, but he was quite certain that for that amount, the woman beside him wouldn’t even take off her bracelet.

“That’ll do nicely,” she purred. “You won’t mind if we make the transaction here and now. Just for everyone’s peace of mind.”

“Of course,” he said, dry-throated.

Her fingers – long and slender, with red-painted nails – flashed across the keys. The words AMOUNT TO TRANSFER appeared.

“We did agree on that?” she cooed.

“Yes.” _No, unless it was in one of my nightmares._

“I’ll make it well worth your while.” She keyed in 00.00 and pressed Enter. “Well, there you go! That wasn’t difficult, was it? Now, I’m sure you’d like to go somewhere private.”

_I’d like to go home to Vulcan. I’d like to forget I ever met you. I’d like to wake up in my own bed with a fever and find this has all been a hallucination._

“That is what I have paid for,” he managed.

“And they say Vulcans are repressed! I’m sure you can show me that’s _com-plete-ly_ untrue.” She walked a couple of fingers up his chest towards the fastening of his tunic. “Well, let’s get to it!”

As he followed her dismally across the concourse, trying not to observe the inevitable effects of her placing one foot directly in front of another as if walking on a tightrope – unlikely, given the fact that she was wearing high-heeled shoes that must surely be prejudicial to the long-term health of her feet – Yuris took what comfort he could from the conviction that it would be unlikely in the extreme for a real prostitute to charge nothing for her services.

She slipped through an unobtrusive door and he followed her, to find himself in an echoing stairwell. She smiled enchantingly at him, said “Not far now!” and led the way up a flight of stairs.

On the second floor she pushed open a door. It led to a corridor, presumably one of those containing accommodation units. It was lined with numbered doors, and with another smile she led him to one. “Thirteen is your lucky number!” she said on a gay note, and held her palm to the identification plate.

For a moment he hesitated. Then he followed her inside.


	8. Chapter 8

The room was small and utilitarian and held little by way of furnishings other than the inevitable bed, but it was clean. It was also already occupied.

He came to a halt, weighing up the situation. The woman who was almost certainly _not_ a prostitute leaned to shut the door behind him and then kicked off her shoes. “Damn things, who can wear these all day?” she grumbled. Then she looked up at him, and despite the cosmetics and the styled hair her face – although still beautiful – was suddenly hard. Though not exactly reassuring, it made her look far more attractive than the false smile had done. “Well done. Thank you.”

The other occupant of the room was another Human, but as dark as the woman was fair. He had been seated when they entered, but rose immediately.

“Thank you for coming,” he said.

“I was not aware I had a choice,” replied Yuris rather stiffly. “Do you mind explaining exactly what is going on?”

“Certainly.” He gestured to a replicator, set in the wall, on which three cups were set out. “Will you join us in a drink?”

The Vulcan looked hard at him, but though he had no experience in reading Human faces they were like enough to his own species for him to gain the impression that though the massive stranger would make a bad enemy, he would make a good comrade.

“I thank you,” he nodded. “Rooibos, if I may. Black, no sugar.” His sister had been on a scientific exchange visit to Earth and brought back quite a few samples of the drinks there to share with the family, and that was one type he recalled as having an agreeable taste.

The woman was closest to the replicator and moved to prepare the drinks. For herself she ordered a spearmint tea, for her companion an espresso coffee. When they were ready, she handed theirs to the two men and left hers while she slipped into the small bathroom. There was only one chair, so the Human male sat on the bed, politely gesturing his guest to take the chair instead.

Then, after introducing both himself and his colleague by names that Yuris was absolutely sure were not their own, he began outlining what had happened. Half way through the account the woman re-emerged, her dress exchanged for a worn, rather grubby one-piece suit that bore the legend MAINTENANCE; naturally Yuris (who could neither read nor speak English) did not understand it, but he recognised that she had exchanged one disguise for another, one that would allow her to move around the station with hardly a soul paying her any attention. Her hair was swept up and pinned under a peaked cap, her nails were bare of paint, and her face – equally bare of cosmetics – was no longer wearing the look of predatory allure that had so horrified him. She was still quite lovely, because genetics had bestowed on her eyes of a most striking blue and a classically straight nose above a shapely mouth, all set in skin as flawless as porcelain.

She picked up her tea and sat silently sipping it while ‘Leo’ finished his account. He too was wearing that utilitarian uniform, which accounted for how they would leave the room afterwards in anonymity.

“So in what way do you imagine I will be able to assist you?” asked Yuris, trying to ignore the upwelling fear that he’d been sent here because something he’d thought a very secure secret was not secret at all from the V’Shar.

The female – ‘Pard’ – looked at him, those beautiful blue eyes very level. “Sir, if there’s to be any hope of persuading that – that _entity_ – to leave our colleague, it requires the services of a telepath. And you’ll excuse my frankness, but I really don’t think you’d have been sent here if you couldn’t help us.”

He caught his breath involuntarily. After that, it was somewhat a waste of effort to try to pretend he had no idea what they were talking about, and to judge by their expressions they wouldn’t have believed him anyway.

Melding. An ancient practice, now outlawed by Vulcan society as almost a perversion, the few who practised it in secret risking everything if they were discovered. If either of the doctors senior to him discovered that he was among them, he would lose not only his post, he would lose his entire career; he would become a social pariah. His betrothal to S’Tira would be broken off, while his family would have the choice between disowning him or becoming tainted for life by association.

He should give it up. Each time he’d risked exposure and disgrace by meeting up in the closest secrecy with a fellow melder, he’d sworn that this would be the last. But it felt so _right_ , so _natural_ – brought with it such a sense of joy and fellowship – that though each time he’d struggled to keep that promise, each time the temptation to do it just one more time was too great. It felt as though he would be denying his very nature by refusing, and that was the greatest denial of logic of all. 

But one of the strictest rules about melding with another person’s mind was that it _must_ be mutually sought. To force this on another, unconsenting, would be a violation tantamount to rape. And how could an unconscious Human possibly give consent?

“I am sorry,” he said stiffly. “I understand your need, and I know why I have been chosen. But you are asking me for something I cannot possibly perform.”

As aware as he was of Humans’ reputation for ungoverned behaviour, he more than half expected to be subjected to a hail of abuse at least, if not outright assaulted in an effort to coerce him. But though he tensed in anticipation, no outburst came. The two of them simply sat there studying him. If they were contemplating violence they certainly hid it well.

“May we ask why you’re refusing?” asked the male, his deep voice surprisingly calm.

Yuris spread his hands. “This – person, you say, is unconscious. He cannot possibly give _any_ form of consent, let alone informed consent. It would be completely unethical to force a meld. It would be total violation of his privacy. It would be an _assault_.”

The female leaned forward. Strangely, now she was no longer dressed with such brazen lack of modesty he could appreciate her aesthetic beauty more. “But sir, if you refuse, he has no chance of recovery. He’ll most likely just lie there till he dies – and the creature inside him will die too. Don’t you think condemning him to that’s even _less_ ethical?”

He shook his head. “I am sorry,” he repeated. “Truly, I am – for both of them. But two wrongs do not make a right – I believe even you Humans subscribe to that concept.

“ _He_ cannot consent, and _it_ cannot consent. Furthermore, I have no knowledge of how any intervention on my part might affect either of them. I do not know whether Human brains are even sufficiently compatible with Vulcan brains to allow melding to take place. I could do far more harm than good if I even attempted to intervene.”

“But if we leave things as they are, and Jag dies – and presumably so will the creature, because Starfleet won’t allow any other of their personnel to be ‘occupied’ – we have no idea how that death, if it happened, would affect the others,” her colleague interposed. “Setting aside the question of the access to their world’s resources, Starfleet has a moral responsibility towards those beings. If we simply step aside and allow them to die, that’s effectively genocide.” 

That aspect of it had not occurred to Yuris. “Please,” he said, holding up a hand. “I – I must have time to think.”

Of course,” replied Leo quietly. “That’s understandable.” 

As a scientist first and foremost, the Vulcan felt a general sense of moral responsibility towards all the species that the process of evolution had produced. And if the Starfleet personnel were telling the truth (and it was so fantastic a tale that he suspected it probably _was_ the truth, because someone trying to tell a lie would have chosen something far more plausible), his refusal to act _could_ lead to exactly the outcome Leo had described – genocide.

He felt a burst of what was unmistakably irritation, if no worse, at the horrendous situation the meddling Humans had caused. It was true after all that they were prone to rush in first and ask questions later! And as for the attempt to kidnap an entity – especially one from such a delicate and most likely endangered species – as an item of _merchandise_ , his whole _katra_ recoiled from the idea.

They had, it was true, attempted to remedy the state of affairs. This team of operatives had undoubtedly placed themselves at great personal risk to do so, and their fellow’s fate showed how great a risk it had been. But they had simply made the situation immeasurably more complicated. Yuris had no idea of the construction of what kind of ‘container’ the entity had been being transported in, but now it was damaged; true, it could be repaired and re-sealed from the outside, but would that suffice? And what if it didn’t?

And, assuming for the sake of argument that he agreed to perform the meld _and_ was able to make contact with the Human’s mind – an idea in itself that gave him the shivers – did that therefore mean he would be able to meld with the entity too? The prospect of joining minds with an alien who shared at least some physiological resemblance to his own species was alarming enough, but what would it be like to join one that operated on a completely different level? And if he succeeded even in communicating with the entity in any meaningful way, what was to say it would agree to co-operate? What if it decided to occupy _him_ instead?

Although admitting to both scientific and personal curiosity, Yuris had never aspired to heroism. He still didn’t. He told himself that he was not the stuff of which martyrs are made, and got no argument on that score.

But he _was_ the stuff of which scientists are made – conscientious scientists. And it seemed the V’Shar were fully aware of that, as well as of the ability he’d believed up till now was a closely guarded secret. So that, without doubt, was why they’d selected him.

It was less obvious why they were so anxious that the oAchse should not suffer any ill effects. If word of it got out, it would be the Humans who would bear the odium – his own involvement would be carefully wiped from the records, to keep Vulcan clear of any of the blame. And there seemed little reason to believe that the High Command would be all that displeased by the upstart Humans falling flat on their over-inquisitive noses, so it was unlikely that they had instructed the V’Shar to intervene.

True, the Humans had admitted they did not know what the effect would be on the other creatures if the rescue attempt failed. The prospective ‘co-parent’ was in understandable distress. Perhaps if the missing _kyoa_ was not recovered in time, its own reproductive ability would be compromised; it might not be able to produce a bud. As for the entity whose _kyoa_ had been stolen, preventing it from receiving one in return, it presumably faced death – a concept apparently alien to its kind. Or, at the very best, a crippled and dwindling existence, with half of its capacity stripped away.

So little was understood about the life cycles and interrelationships of these creatures that it could not even be guaranteed that the death of one and possibly even two individuals would be perceived by them as an isolated event. There was small doubt that it would send seismic waves through their entire community. What the full effects of such a tremor might be…

It was still an absolute truth that carrying out a meld with a being incapable of giving consent was a moral wrong. But assuming he gave credence to the whole story (and dared he risk disbelieving it?), risking a whole species being wiped out was an even greater moral wrong.

_The needs of the many are greater than the needs of the one._

His shoulders sagged. “Very well,” he sighed. “I will do it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews make me very happy. If you've enjoyed this, please leave one!


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